


Green and Yellow (Golden Shimmers of Dust)

by ryucreates



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Ghostbur, Hurt No Comfort, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), haha - Freeform, ig, mentions of tommyinnit - Freeform, nice, spoilers for techno's most recent stream, uhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryucreates/pseuds/ryucreates
Summary: There’s a certain humor to be had in situations of dire need- the hysterics of the situation drive into one’s soul until the only working, capable thought is to laugh, to laugh until your lungs dry, to laugh until you cry, until you vomit, until you die.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, no - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 97





	Green and Yellow (Golden Shimmers of Dust)

**Author's Note:**

> was watching techno's stream today and  
> i just had to write this moment  
> also!!!!! keep in mind that these are the CHARACTERS, not the people. not the CC's

_ There’s a certain humor to be had in situations of dire need- the hysterics of the situation drive into one’s soul until the only working, capable thought is to laugh, to laugh until your lungs dry, to laugh until you cry, until you vomit, until you die.  _

There are moments when he truly hates his brain- how thoughts fly a mile a minute, the voices reaching crescendos like tidal waves, crashing down on him until he can barely breathe- can’t speak, let alone think, too preoccupied with trying not to die, trying to keep the water out of his lungs, but it’s a losing battle- there’s only one of him, there’s hundreds of thousands of them, he’s suffocating under the water of thousands of wants and wishes and screams and cries and soft spoken words- he’s drowning in responsibility, knowledge- bloodlust- he’s dying and-

_ Technoblade never dies. _

That’s the truth- that’s what he tells himself, scrambling around his house-  _ his house, lovingly made- it’s his house, his house, his house-  _ frantically pulling out ingredients for potions -  _ where was the glowstone, anyways? The scutes, the redstone- why’s there wheat in the potion chest- why’s it all wrong? _

He got the messages on his communicator only minutes ago- it’s a ten minute journey from L’manberg to his house, surely they won’t be there for another minute, surely they won’t be around for at least five more minutes, surely, right?

He’s making strength potions - _ where’s the gunpowder, you need gunpowder, we need gunpowder, where is it- _ when he hears the rustling and crunching of snow outside his house. 

For a precious few seconds, his mind is empty, only the lingering threads of anxiety and worry about where his ingredients are keep him company, and then-

_ THERE’S SOMEONE OUTSIDE _

_ THERE’S SOMEONE OUTSIDE _

_ THERE’S SOMEONE OUTSIDE _

_ TECHNOBLIND _

_ TECHNOBLIND _

It’s almost in a frenzy, the way he pulls out his sword, shoves his helmet over his head-  _ the crown feels heavy as he takes it off, but he has to- it wouldn’t fit under the netherite, would crumble and fall apart under the heavy metal- _ and cracks open the door, blade raised and legs poised to jump out, to strike, to land a crit on whatever body part he can hit. He looks out, sees nothing, sees nothing - _ there was something, there was something there, someone is here, someone is here, Technoblind, Technoblind, TECHNOBLIND- _

The soft voice of his brother-  _ dead dead dead, Killza- Dadza killed him, dead dead dead Ghostbur, dead dead dead Ghostbur-  _ echoes through his ears- on top of the hill near his home- gold boots, he can’t tell the enchantments but they must have been what was crunching, must have been the boots- the gold. 

The gold. 

His Wilbur- Ghostbur- stands on a hill, greys and blacks and deep void like eyes staring into him, seeing him, laying him bare- mustard sweater looking out of place in a sea of whites and greys and blacks- yellow and gold and the darkened patches of snow-  _ he still remembers seeing it, out of the corner of his eye- that moment- Phil- Dad- his voice rang out, his cries and pleads and then his scream, his half hysterical laugh and his sobs echoing through the newly created valley- the crater- the devastation- the dull sound of diamond through flesh- the smell of blood like incoming rain- the sound of death, of mourning-  _ and waves.

Techno blinks, shuts the door, stares at the handle, and listens to his mind rage. 

The chat-  _ what would he call them? The chittery chattery group, the voices, the thrum of life that kept him going far after he should be dead-  _ was wild- screaming and yelling and celebrating and screaming again, going in circles and never getting anywhere and-

He opens the door again.

Stares at Ghostbur. 

Stares at his brother. 

He lets him inside. 

Wil-  _ Ghost _ -bur isn’t much help with potions- he’s still panicked, his brother far too calm- he hands him Blue -  _ he remembers Wil explaining emotions to him one day, one small, insignificant day that made the world so much different to him- he remembers the curve of Wil’s cheeks, the way his glasses sat askew on his nose, how he’d sniff and sneeze in the pollen laden air, talking about whatever came to mind. He’s not sure when feelings came up- talking with Wil always led from one place to another, he could never keep track- of course, he was never the one talking, it was always Wil. Wil always carried conversations- creating songs and singing lyrics of long forgotten tunes, strumming instruments and smiling at him and Dad and Tommy like the world wasn’t- like he would- like he would never- _

He takes the Blue, puts it in a chest- there’s mountains of the stuff by now- he can’t bear to get rid of any of it, he’s not sure what it does but if it makes Ghostbur happy, he’ll do it.

His brother leaves- taking a blue sheep with him. He only has a few moments to himself- still running around, still gathering ingredients, still tripping over his cloak like he usually does when he’s not quite aware of his surroundings-  _ he has off days, sometimes- days where his head spins and he barely gets out of bed, days where the hours tick by, where he wakes up lucid and wakes up again- hours after, minutes after- sweating and cold and small and sick-  _ before they arrive. 

He could have taken them- could have killed them all- but they had his horse. 

They had Carl. 

For once, his head is silent as he stares down Quackity. 

For once, the chat listens. 

For once, he lays down his weapons. 

It could be minutes, could be hours before he comes back to his body. The voices scream at him constantly, telling him to get on Carl and run, damned be the consequences-  _ the chat always has been fond of Carl, fond of horses in general.- _ and he can’t remember getting into a boat. He supposes it must have happened- he only comes back to Wilbur-  _ no, he’s dead, he’s dead, you watched him die, he's DEAD and it's YOUR FAULT-  _ Ghostbur giving some cutesy remark about the dolphins around them-  _ his boots had depth strider on them- he sits on wooden planks, feeling naked and vulnerable in nothing but a simple shirt, cloak, and breeches- he put his knife down as well, not wanting to take many chances when they came upon him, threatening his horse- threatening Carl. _

He supposes it’s a cruel sort of justice, being forced into a cage. 

He had stood at the top of a hill, overlooking whatever had become of the grand nation of L’manberg-  _ they used him, manipulated him from the start, brought him in with spun tales as thick as spiderweb, cut through with his sword no harder than it was to set off the festival, make his eyes hurt from the dancing light and his nose sting from the smoke, the sparks flying and his hooves dancing electric on the podium, mad with laughter as his tongue felt heavy laying against the bottoms of his tusks, as his claws scratched long reminders into his crossbow, as he set his sights on the citizens- _

_ Blood for the blood god. _

He stands, sticks his hands in his pockets, acts bored- only raises an eyebrow at them all. He watches as Punz runs in, not saying a word but almost blowing the place to hell-  _ he’ll realize later, when the concussion fades, that it was merely a distraction from the main event- _ watches as the butchers- _ he wonders where the blood came from, after his ears stop ringing and his feet stop hurting whenever he stands-  _ run amongst themselves, yelling in pain or in fear, he did not know. 

He watches as Quackity rants- yells at Tubbo - _ my god, he’s just sixteen, too young, too soft, who ever let a child fight in a war- who ever let him be more than a kid, who took it away from him- who- _

He watches Quackity stand at the contraption- a single lever switch and he would be dead, crushed by unimaginable weight, killed by gravity- killed. 

Dead. 

He watches as Quackity pulls the lever- 

_ He always had something- his inventory, if you could call the many bags and straps and holsters an inventory, was never empty. _

He watches, listens as the contraption groans- for a second, he doesn’t think it’ll work, and then the groaning stops, and-

_ It was so small, when he found it- emeralds the size of his pinky nail embedded into a crudely shaped face, tiny gold body managing to fit in his hand almost completely, only the head poking out should he grip onto it whole handed. _

The anvil falls, and-

_ When they asked him to drop everything, they never should have trusted him- but none of them wanted to come close to him, which was fine. None of them saw him slip it into the pockets of his breeches- the small form almost indistinguishable from the normal wrinkles in the fabric, so close it was to his hips. _

He closes his eyes, and-

_ He’d only ever read about it, really- some said it was like being a firework, lit up and exposed, but also whole at the same time- ready to face anything. Some said it would burn, bright and hot and loud and shaking in his ears and his hands. Some said it was beautiful- like a supernova from a distance, green and yellow and gold and life blooming.  _

The chat is quiet. 

The world feels still.

He doesn’t dare open his eyes. 

When it first touches his head, he almost thinks its his father- Phil, his dad- come to brush his hair as he gets ready for bed, come to braid his hair before he coops up in his room or outside all day. 

He doesn’t open his eyes. 

Everything is so slow. 

It’s heavier now, weighing down on him. 

The voices pick up again- 

Time speeds up again-

He opens his eyes again-

The world is full of color-

Someone is screaming-

His back is heavy, weighed down by some force. His eyes are clouded- red laces over his lashes like rain on his hair-

But he’s alive. 

He starts to laugh- first low and hacking and quiet, and then louder and louder until the solid iron shifts off his back, until his feet are under him once again, until the iron bars form less of a cage and more of a ladder, until he sees Dream- Dream, with Carl- Dream, in a tunnel, Dream, Carl, alive-

He laughs long, he laughs hard- chat screams, shrieking in his ears in a dissonant harmony, but he keeps his eyes open. 

_ Technoblade never dies. _

**Author's Note:**

> did u like it? 
> 
> if theres anything u think i can do better, pls comment below!


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